The Dogfish | His Promising Subsistence Hath Naught…

For a man to utter such filth about women - no matter how sordid the tales - one must exercise discernment. Step back. Scrutinize his intent. Was this factual, or merely the venom of a spurned overture?

Look at the man himself before you go hum and ha with his calumny, eager to brand the women.

Keep your eyes wide open, lest you find yourselves complicit in a witch-hunt. Don't let that fake peacock suit - or his clumsy acting as a Mr. Goody Two-Shoes - fool you.

Obviously, there is naught straight from the horse's mouth here, only sewage. There is a predator and there is a victim here. It is nothing more than the wretched pettiness of the smallest man, and if you joined him, no amount of bleach would wash that filth out of you.

Photo by Nicolas Houdayer on Unsplash

His conduct was an open secret, a sordid tableau played out across the marketplace of the town. He was constantly seen in compromising, intimate proximity to everyone who wore a skirt—including mere sweet young things and women of questionable background—openly frequenting love hotels for a revolving door of liaisons passagères.

He was insufferably boastful about these encounters, preening over his superb- yet entirely specious - prowess, collecting trophy for his own ego.

He played the part of the virile libertine with practiced bravado, all while conveniently omitting the chemical crutches he relied on: those little prompt blue pills to bolster his flagging vigor.

O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!

His reputation for tawdry entanglements became the joke of the town the day his long-suffering wife finally turned furious.

Why on earth she had endured his iniquity for so long was a mystery even to her.

Somehow, they were leashed to each other as childhood sweethearts - despite breaking up so many times prior to their marriage.

It felt like they were simply meant to be bound together in an enduring but tragic union. Enduring and tragic? That isn't exactly a dream duo.

There was a sickeningly familiar pattern: every time his profligate wanderlust brought them to the brink, a new pregnancy announcement would follow.

It was as if each child was a tactical deployment designed to anchor her to him.

The scandals never ceased even during the pregnancies; he seemed constitutionally unable to keep it in his pants, leaving his wife to endure his recklessness with a bloated body and a burdened heart.

And then there were the numerous rounds of venereal infection he had passed to her. He had frantically attempted to cover it up, dosing her with an illicit prescription without her knowledge.

The stench of it all - the public humiliations, the endless cycle of apologies bought with a new life - was unbearable.

He had crept home as usual. He rushed straight to the shower to scrub away the lingering stain and grime of his latest liaison passagère . It was that rank stench of a mad dog who had played the bitch for the whole town.

But his wife had been waiting. She cornered him the instant he stepped out, not even letting him dress. She shoved him out the front door, leaving him stranded on the porch in nothing but his boxers.

For the neighbors across the street - who were hosting a barbecue in their yard - it was an unintended sideshow. It was better than watching the festive fireworks display.

No shrug, hum, or ha was needed, nor doth calumny find a place here; he bore the weight of his own self-inflicted petty brands for all to see.

While he stood there stranded in the front, she made her way to the back garden, where she incinerated his expensive suits and finery in a bonfire.

If Heaven has no rage like love betrayed, then Hell has no flame like the one consuming the peacock feathers he so proudly donned to chase every passing skirt. Cinder and ash they became, like his wife's trust.

It was harsh, though hardly harsh enough, considering he deserved far worse.

The humiliation did not stop there.

Daily Prompts for FreeWriters

©Britt H.

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